I left it to you readers to identify the characters. Have fun with that, and make of it what you will.
I know it's rambling... oh well. That's what happens when you write without really reading it over...
At least I made sure I didn't have any (many) typos.
Obviously, I don't own Harry Potter. Of course, since there's so many people on this sight, someone here must own it, so we simply must differentiate, don't we?
Such an interesting phrase, isn't it? If you look at it, think about it; you can clearly see where it comes from. And yet, so few do. The ones who don't would never even think of it, no?
I think it's true. It's one of those so terribly obvious double-meanings that all meaning or significance of it is lost. A cliché. No one cares. And if you do, people say your morbid, no? Disappointing. Story of the human race – shunned for a different point of view. Different thoughts, all wished away for the sake of acceptance.
Such and underrated thing, morbidism. What about perverts? They link everything to sex, pleasure. For the most part, they're just teased. Joked with. For the most part, accepted, unless they take it too far. Morbid people link to death, violence, sadness. Silenced at the first phrase. Your whole perception changes at the first sign, no? It's just a different mindset. Perhaps a different past?
But, again, no one cares. It's just a morbid person, no? They're so creepy, They're scary, They're different. Disturbing.
Not your reaction?
I bet you're lying.
Caught red-handed, weren't you?
Too few people appreciate the irony of it. Once an abhorrent, terrible crime.
But now it's everyday? An everyday occurrence.
I've been caught red-handed. Not in the sense of the term as it's used today, no. My hands are bloodstained, certainly. I'm marked for what I am. Murderer. Killer. Assassin. My hands as red as his demon-eyes.
People say it wasn't a crime. That he deserved to die. Does anyone deserve that?
And here we come to ethics. Does anyone deserve to die? What if they've killed others? Is revenge justified?
I'll not think of that. Upwards of six billion people on this earth, and we all think we have the right to sentence another to death. What about the victim of our misplaced power? What do they think?
Well, we'll never know now, will we?
Morbid again, wasn't I? Interesting.
Perhaps it's fear… morbid people fear death, so they see it everywhere, make light of it. Perhaps that's just a non-morbid person's attempt at explaining away something they find distasteful.
Unless you're a morbid person, how can you tell what it comes from? Can morbid people tell? Dunno… do gay people think about why they're gay? …Should they have to? What about a straight person? How many people really psychoanalyze themselves like that, day after day?
Just me? Damn.
Death, then. Thestrals. A kind of sickening beauty they hold in their existence – a cursed gift, this gift of sight. Almost everyone in the Wizarding World can see them now, even many muggles. Most can't even remember what happened, who died, what, who caused it. How do you think these muggles feel, knowing they lost something, but not knowing what or why?
Well, how do you think the thestrals feel? Never seen, feared when they are, looked over when they aren't. A welcome change for me, perhaps.
For them? Normal. Death, an everyday thing.
Do you think thestrals can see each other? Have they all seen death? What's with that? Silly demon horses, always bumping into each other just because no one's kicked the bucket in front of them.
Again, huh? I guess my humor's deteriorated.
Or maybe you just don't appreciate it.
You do? Or is it just because I accused you of being different?
Funny thing, the human brain.
I've seen quite a few of them.
Of course, morbidism is just a defense mechanism for those who've seen too much.
Really? Are you morbid? Do you really have any authority there?
I'm certainly not defending myself.
I'm just morbid.
Other people, justifying the fact that you're different. Do I need help? I dunno, you tell me. You seem willing to.
And now I'm rambling. It happens. Talking to myself.
Hey Harry, can you hear me?
Not sure, you tell me.
Brings to mind today's society.
It doesn't? Maybe it's just me.
Anyway, my point. Well, another, perhaps. We all ask others before giving our own opinion, and then ours changes. Magically. Yes, pun intended.
Too much depends on those around us. We need to stand for ourselves.
But if we do that, the world will be quite crowded, no? And thus, war begins. Different ideas, contradicting opinions, and therefore, bloodshed. Violence. Death.
But then, I digress. It happens.
At any rate, the war is over. It doesn't matter. Just another war in history. In ten years, no one will care. In a hundred, people will moan at having to memorize its dates. In a thousand, perhaps, it will fade into myth. Another thousand, forgotten entirely.
After all, it is a relatively short war in the course of history.
Look, a running theme; no one cares.
No one knows, no one cares.
Everyone thinks about history like that. Even I do. I remember sitting in History, sleeping through lectures of Goblin Wars. I ignored it. Thought it was boring.
What about the ringleaders of those wars? What about the sacrifices? No one cares to remember. No one even writes their names down. Past a few generations, even their own family forgets their brave sacrifices. People care more about the fashion or gossip of the day than the foundation on which this world is built.
But without it we would none of us exist, no?
You think that way, too, don't you?
Now, now, don't deny it. We all think that way. It's human nature.
Silent voices, silent screams. Muted colors. Missing facts. It's not real, is it?
Of course not. Can you prove it's real?
Can you prove it's not?
And again, I digress. A stable topic doesn't matter, really, does it? After all, I'll die soon anyway. So will you, for that matter. You'll be the first to forget. I'm already trying. Failing, too, by the looks of it. Running away from my troublesome past. Ducking the glances, dodging the questions.
And look at me.
A pale hand loosened it's grasp on the piece of parchment in its grasp. The figure looked up from the paper he'd been reading, and glanced down at the figure in front of him.
"Caught red-handed indeed, Potter," a mouth spoke down to the prone form of the Boy-Who-Lived.
Blood dripped down his wrists, pooling in his open hands and running down the silvery length of the blade held loosely in his limp hand. A morbid smile played across his cold lips. Eyes closed to the world around him. The steady plink-plink of slowing crimson liquid falling to the floor echoed through the empty bathroom.
The figure, slightly bloodstained paper still clutched in its hand, walked away from the body of the Boy-Who-Died, footsteps drowning out the sound of dying life.
The door squeaked shut, clicking quietly as it closed.
And as it walked away, a faint murmur graced the silent air of the lavatory.